It Was An Accident
by VtheCheshireMao
Summary: John didn't mean to hit him. But Sherlock can be so irritating sometimes, it's a wonder more people don't. Apologizing to the most intelligent, egotistical man in the universe may be harder than one would think, and it sounds quite dreadful.
1. Chapter 1

**I'd managed to avoid the fanfictions... I thought I could finally get into "serious"(my own stories/characters) but the fanfiction ideas keep popping up... I got 2/almost 3 months without writing anything though, I'd say that's an accomplishment. But I got bored and wrote this during class.**

"Tell me."

"No, I don't think I will."

"John."

"What?"

"I don't like repeating myself."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You know perfectly well what I'm talking about."

"Hm?"

_"John.." _he hissed, glaring at the shorter man. "_Tell. Me."_

The shorter one giggled, watching the other one. Sherlock's hands ran through his already mussed up hair, dropping the dark curls across his face. His white shirt was wrinkled from his incessant moving around the room.

"Why must you be such an insufferable idiot?"

Neither of them are sure of how it happened or what even did happen, but after a few tossed around insults, John's fist connected with Sherlock's shoulder. Once that sunk in, Sherlock's blue-grey eyes were wide, actually surprised, and John was stunned. His mouth dropped open, searching for some sotrt of apology that would suffice for Sherlock.

"I- I- Sherlock, I'm sorry- I didn't mean to-"

Sherlock's face, once again, drained of emotion as he turned his back to John, straightening his shirt and pulling out his phone. "Don't fret over it, John. It's done."

"Sherlock-"

"What?" he growled, turning his head slightly, just enough to glare at John. "If you're just going to keep on apologizing, you may as well stop now. I'm really not interested."

If he wasn't expecting the punch, he really wasn't expecting what came next. The full impact of his flatmate smacked him directly on the back, knocking his legs out and landing him face first on the floor, the reason for his fall still sitting on him, holding him down.

"John, you're trailing down dangerous territory." His voice was sharp, threatening, even while muffled by the floor.

"I don't bloody care, Sherlock! You're going to listen, for once. Do you even realize how hard it is to live with you, sometimes? I'm trying to apologize and I don't care that you supposedly don't want to hear it. I'm sorry that I hit you! I didn't mean to-"

"I suppose you also didn't mean to jump me and tackle me to the floor and shove my face into the carpet. Your apologies are tedious, and I dwon't thee ther pobrem." Part way through, John had placed a hand on the back of Sherlock's head and forced him further into the rug to smother his speech.

"You left no other options. I don't know how else to get through your big ego. You never listen to anyone unless it could benefit you."

There was a struggle under him; Sherlock rolling over and wrestling for the upper hand. He'd pinned John down, arms twisted oddly beneath him, bright blue eyes glaring into his in a murderous expression. Blood ran down nhis forehead into his eyes, his left sleeve torn and spotted with blood.

"I suggest you calm down, John, else you want to be subject to my latest experiments: Effects of Acid on the Human Male, Before and After Death. Now, allow me to teach you a thing or two about civil social behavior. When attempting to apologize, you do not attack the person you are apologizing to, nor do you continue to insult said person."

"Fine, Sherlock, I-mmmphaggar!"

A strip of duct tape was pressed down over John's mouth, silencing him as he watched the taller man pace in front of him.

"Despite popular belief, I _do_ listen, not only when it interests me. Just because I dopn't act on what I hear does not mean I don't listen. I simply delete all useless information later on."

John had somehow managed to untangle his arms, reaching up to pull off the tape. "I-"

Sherlock ignored his attempt to butt in, continuing on his rant. "I believe I also informed you when we first met that I was hard to live with. You are perfectly aware of me "big ego", are you not?"

"I'm trying to be a good friend, Sherlock, because, according to you, _you don't have any,_ but you're making it terribly hard."

"You see, John, as you said, I don't have any friends."

"Then what am I?'

"You- John, I'm not one to understand, as I've no experience in the matter, but I don't believe one normally hits their friends, no matter how much they want to, as I know you'd like to."

"I told you, I didn't mean to. Though you did deserve it-"

"Three times?"

"Maybe it was a bit excessive..."

"You also _bit_ me..."

"Well-"

Before he could finish, Sherlock turned, retreating to his room without another word. The door slammed closed, ending any further communication for the night. John fell back, collapsing on the ground where he was sat and closing his eyes. He had absolutely no idea what had just happened.

Sherlock sat in his room, cross-legged in the middle of his bed, staring at a wall, his fingers steepled under his chin, in thought. The blood trickled down his forehead, into his eyes, which roamed down to the ripped sleeve he'd pushed above his elbow, now stained red. Teeth marks lay on the center of his arm, a few inches below the wrist.

When he heard the front door slam shut, he stood, walking out of his room to the bathroom. His hair was a mess, the front curls matter down with blood. A small gash sat just above his eyebrow, covered in blood, quite a bit of it dripping onto his shirt collar.

He sighed, peeling off his ruined, blood-stained shirt and dropping it on the floor. As he turned on the shower, his phone vibrated in his pants pocket.

_New Message:_

_John: How's the venom?_

He rolled his eyes, dropping the phone on the sink. _How many times has he had to explain to John: Hedgehog's do not have venom. And just because one person compared him to a hedgehog DOES NOT MEAN he is one._

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the beginnings of a bruise on his shoulder.

The phone went off again:

_John:__ I know, I know. No venom. I'm trying to apologize without you taping my mouth shut. Don't be a prick._

_John: Sorry, sorry. No insulting._

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and turned back to the shower.


	2. Chapter 2

**Of course I hadn't planned on leaving it at just that last chapter. It couldn't possibly have been considered near finished.  
_And no, I'm not even sure I remember what was keeping John's arms stuck behind him... It was something to do with his arms being stuck at an odd angle, and Sherlock was originally holding him back. I'm sure he could have found some way to stop John from moving his arms... Anyway, no, I can't say what exactly it was holding him back..._**

When John arrived home, he was heaving several grocery bags alongside him. He dropped them in the only open space, not cluttered with experiments or science experiments.

The flat was quiet, not unusual, as it normally was whenever Sherlock was thinking. Something seemed off, though, and John couldn't stop himself from wondering what. Leaving whatever groceries couldn't fit around the 'experiments' in the fridge on the counter, he walked into the living area, expecting to find his flatmate either stretched out on the counter or perched in his chair. What he saw was a bit more shocking. Sherlock was, non-surprisingly, spread out on the couch, eyes closed, feet propped up on a pillow. None of this shocked John; what did was what the younger man was _wearing. _Actually, it wasn't so much what he _was_ wearing, but what he _wasn't._

Instead of his usual suit, or even his blue nightgown, his chest was bare, only a light sheet covering his shoulders down to his legs. The dark mop of curls spread over the pillow he was on, still slightly wet from his shower and a barely visible red trail led from the small, now-dark gash above his eyebrow.

"...Sherlock?" John muttered, attempting to hide the shock in his voice.

No movement.

He wasn't sleeping. Sherlock never slept. The only logical reason would be that he was ignoring John in his "mind palace". John turned to leave, trying to shake the mental images of nude Sherlock from his mind, but as he was turning, his eyes landed on Sherlock's chest. At the end of where the sheet ended, a purple-ish mark began, partially hidden under the thin fabric. John forgot his attempt to leave, medical instincts taking over, and moved closer to examine the damage. The gash on his forehead needed taking care of, to avoid infection and the bruising would go down, with proper care.

John had, without realizing it, moved closer until almost touching his chest. His eyes were focused on the bruise as his fingers brushed over it, pushing the sheet off of it to reveal how large it really was, leaving him completely oblivious to the pale eyelids jumping open, or the wide, blue-grey eyes staring him down.

_Had he really done this much damage to his best friend? Of course, it will go away, but he really hadn't meant to harm him. _

Something didn't make sense, though. Something was still off. How much blood had come from that wound? Wouldn't Sherlock know to clean out and apply medicine to the wound? He couldn't be _that _careless of his health. Sure, he doesn't sleep or eat for weeks at a time, and he used to be a drug addict, still occasionally begging for a cigarette, but if it interferes with his overdressed, sexy formal attire, he would never let it show.

_Did he just call his friend "sexy"? Where did that come from? _

No, he'd missed something. The blood is dry... But it's not plastered to his face. And his hair's wet... He _did _wash the cut... He wouldn't purposely stain his shirt, but he wouldn't just strip and walk around without clothes if he hadn't showered or just woken up.

_He was showing off the injuries. The bloody git was purposely showing John what he'd done. So, then, he's- _

John's hand had trailed down Sherlock's chest, a few inches off of the bruise. His eyes widened when it dawned on him what he'd been doing. And for more than a few minutes.

His eyes shot up to study Sherlock's face. If he weren't this close, he wouldn't have even noticed the changes. His eyes were closed and his expression flat, thoughtful, but his jaw clenched and eyebrows slightly closer together.

His eyes trailed back to his hand, fingers still trailing over Sherlock's bare chest. When he looked back to his face, his eyes widened in embarrassment. The brunette's jaw had relaxed and his clear blue eyes danced lazily over John's face before moving down to glance at the fingers caressing his chest.

John pulled back, face flushing as he just about trips over his own feet, to which the corners of Sherlock's lips twitch. Sherlock just stared at him, not making any indication that he would initiate conversation.

"D-did... No, of course you didn't..." John stammered. "You need treatment for that gash on your forehead. Wait here."

John left the room, returning moments later with a medical kit and a damp washcloth. Sherlock hadn't moved, still following him with his eyes.

"Mind sitting up so I can take care of that gash?"

No change.

"No? Alright, Sherlock, sure, I'll take care of you. Just lie down, relax. I'll tend to your every will." John went on in a mocking tone, dragging the damp cloth across Sherlock's forehead. He sat on the edge of the couch, pulling out medicine to smear across his forehead. As he reaches across, he lightly pushes back the curls that fell over the cut, noticing how soft the are. He found the clear blue eyes studying him, suddenly noticing he had been playing with the soft curls. He dropped them, going back to wiping the cream over the gash and placing a bandage over it.

"Alright, where's your wrist? That may have been a bit of an injury, I can't say how bad, though..." Sherlock didn't move. "Come on, lazy git. Show me your arm before I have to go into your sheet looking for it."

One thin, dark brow raised and the corner of Sherlock's pale lips twitched into a smirk.

"Oh, Jesus, now you respond." John's head dropped into his hands, rubbing his temples. "Just show me your arm."

Sherlock's left shoulder rolled back, slowly shaking the sheet down. The cloth dropped onto the couch, revealing more of his chest; the large swollen purple bruise almost fully shown and his thin, muscular arm. This loosened the sheet, showing his stomach, his lean, upper body fully revealed, aside from the right arm.

John sucked in a deep breath, taking in the long, slim body, his eyes trailing over it all until a swollen red arm was presented to him. Several teeth marks were dug deep enough into the arm to leave the scars, bruises surrounding those marks. Dried blood was caked around one deep cut.

John looked horrified. _Did he do that?!_ His eyes shot up, looking to meet eye-contact with Sherlock, but his head had turned away.

John wrapped the towel around the swollen arm while he searched for the necessary material and medication. He cleaned the wound, massaged the correct medication on it and carefully wrapped bandages down his arm, elbow to wrist.

He was in a daze. _How could he hurt his best friend like that? What was he thinking? And why hadn't Sherlock said anything? Was he still upset? Probably, being the drama queen that he is. _

Without thinking, John leaned down, pressing his lips to the bandages where the deepest cut had been.

Sherlock's face had tinted pink, but he still refused to speak, his mind suddenly cluttered. His hand dropped to his chest, feeling unfamiliar fingers skipping around his chest, dancing across the bruise. He could feel his heart racing, his breath hitch. Warm air tickled the area surrounding the bruise. Two full, chapped lips pressed lightly against where the air had been. His eyes, which had been lazily closing, only slits watching the short man leaning over him, shot open, wide, at the light brush against his chest. His heart skittered about in his rib cage, racing around as panic set in with the new territory.

"This doesn't seem acceptable behavior for a doctor of your standard," he managed to breathe out in a low, hopefully flat, voice.

"I'm off duty." John was flushed, mesmerized by the beauty of the long, slim man in front of him. He only had a very small idea of what he was actually doing and, later on, he's sure he'll regret this.

"You take advantage of your patients on your off hours?" A thin, suggestive smirk somehow made its way onto his smug face as he felt two, rough hands make their way from his chest to his stomach, sliding around to grab his waist.

"Only if they allow it."

Their eyes finally met and they stared at each other, hundreds of thoughts racing through each of their minds. After only a few seconds, though, John's mind seemed to be backing off, second-guessing this whole experience. Sherlock saw this and knew that if he didn't do something quickly, the chance would be gone, forever.

"Then I give you permission, Doctor Watson, to do whatever you feel necessary."

John's cheeks burned as Sherlock's injured hand wrapped around his, bringing it to his mouth to plant a soft kiss on the back. The blond leaned forward, cautiously, pressing his lips against the awaiting ones of the brunette, lightly. It started slow, sweet, moving quickly to rough and need for more. John pushed himself against the man lying on the couch, keeping one hand on the man's waist as the other moved into those soft, brown curls. He tangled his fingers in the curls, massaging the back of the mans' scalp in the process. Sherlock clung to him, wrapping both arms around his neck, trying to pull closer to the shorter mans' lips.

John pulled back, letting Sherlock drop onto the couch, hair falling over his face as a wide, maniacal grin found its way across his features.

"Apology accepted."

"I'm still not telling."


End file.
